


Halcyon Nights

by seraphflight



Category: Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Historical Fantasy, M/M, New Orleans, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 13:38:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18692599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphflight/pseuds/seraphflight
Summary: Lestat is jealous of Louis's fondness for Martine. When Martine is found murdered, fingers point in Lestat's direction. But is he guilty of her death? And if not, then who is?





	Halcyon Nights

**Author's Note:**

> This was co-written with a fellow RPG player who wrote Lestat's part. It is a sadly incomplete, old RPG work... If anyone has the rest of it still, please contact me.

Post #1  
Louis

Magnolias in springtime are forever dear to me. As I strolled contentedly beside tall wrought iron garden fences, my eyes following the curves and rusting spikes of their ornate designs, I deeply inhaled the compelling fragrance of those large, chalice-like white blossoms. Even the knotted twists of the gnarled bark held fascination for me. Gently, I plucked one of the blossoms and held it carefully in my hand, relishing the coolness of the thick, waxy petals nursing delicate stamens.

Snatches of conversations came to my ears as I walked past open windows, vignettes of ordinary lives framed by swathes of snowy lace and illumined by beeswax candelabra or the soft amber glow of oil lamps. Gleaming faintly from reflected light, a black lacquered carriage pulled by two black mares rolled noisily past me, its weary driver hunched under a heavy cloak drawn tightly closed against the cool night air.

Hushed voices from within the deep shadows of an alleyway flowed to me on the breeze, and I smiled faintly at the unseen union of two illicit lovers. They had no reason to fear disturbance from me. I walked on, satisfied for the moment, thinking of Martine whose arms I had left barely moments ago. Her quiet, husky voice seemed to echo yet through my calm mind, pleading with me not to leave her so soon, asking why it was that I now always demanded almost total darkness when I came to her; asking why I now seemed so detached and remote. Again I had needed to reassure her softly wept convictions that I no longer hungered for her caresses. How wrong she was, but how my hunger had changed.

I would never hurt her, of this I was determined. I would never betray her trust in me, or her reliance on my protection. I had even refused Lestat’s insistent demands to be introduced to her. Martine must never know of the changes working within my damned soul; of this I was resolute. I had cupped her head, with its cascading tresses of glossy black wavy hair, as sensitively as I now held this magnolia blossom. Her clinging arms had entwined my waist, her coffee-coloured skin as smooth as brushed satin and perfumed delicately with gardenia and musk, and as on all recent visits to the home which I financed for her, she had begged me not to leave so soon. But leave I must, and quickly, for even then, despite all my resolve, the foul hunger had begun to rise within me.

How I hated what I had become. How I loathed this wretched existence to which Lestat had so glibly condemned me. In accepting his cursed gift, I had not only exchanged one set of problems for another and closed the heavenly gates against my predatory soul, but I had also blithely presumed to accept the role of Grim Reaper’s apprentice. But I would not take up the scythe held out to me; I would not betray the humanity within me which had survived the transformation. But then I looked down at the magnolia blossom which I carried in my hand as I walked, slowly, home to Pointe du Lac. I had crushed it without even noticing.

 

Post #2  
Lestat

I am considered an early riser among my kind. And the flash of colour that blazed across the sky in those last few minutes before sunset was one of the few tethers to the mortal world left to me. And yes I did enjoy them, even then. It has been my custom for some time now to sit at a window upon rising and enjoy the display. This evening was no exception. It was also no exception in the fact that Louis, who always rose after me, had once again left the house to visit Martine, his mistress during his mortal life.

What? Did I burst your little bubble about Louis? You find it hard to believe that Louis the good, Louis the pure, indulged his carnal appetites? That he even had them? Let me assure you... he did. He does. Like any other good Creole gentleman, he had attended the infamous Blue Ribbon Balls. The world of the Demi-Monde...Young and beautiful Octoroon women, the illegitimate results of illicit but commonplace African and white relations. These beauties were prized for skin the colour of cafe-au-lait, as well as the comfort of the homes and open arms...among other things...they provided to their white protectors. They were not common whores...more along the lines of European courtesans, and only bedded one man at a time. And they had the added benefit of being "free women of colour", with a book of laws thick as a brick. Man's hypocrisy has never failed to amuse me. Some were kept as a mistress for life. Some were discarded as partners, yet financially maintained for the rest of their days, or until a new protector laid claim to their favours. Some were deserted completely and sank deep into the unsavoury side of the only trade they knew.

Martine was presented to Louis when she was 16, and was all but served up to him on a silver plate. The Pointe du Lac family in general...and Louis in particular...was a prized plum for the women lucky enough to hold the positions of mistress and wife. Louis had managed to maintain the former and avoid the latter...part of his charm.

I wanted to meet Martine. I had a perverse interest in this aspect of Louis' life. The fact that he could not bid farewell to his mortal appetites both fascinated and appalled me. Appalled because it was dangerous in the extreme to maintain this close a relationship with a mortal, for surely she must be aware of the transformation. His pallor and the sudden ice of his once warm skin were not conditions that could go unnoticed for long. And Louis had yet to display any skill in the ability to entangle the minds of mortals. In short his luscious beloved was a liability.

I had demanded several times that he rid himself of her, buy her off as was the custom, and forget her. Of course, he refused, being sure to point out my continual indiscretions among the slaves, and blaming it all on jealousy. And there was a small element of that as well. Louis was too new in my life for me to tolerate sharing him with a mortal.

I sat, staring at the ink that had slowly settled across the firmament, counting the stars as they slowly gave shape to the darkness. I was torn between the hunger building steadily - tonight it twisted like a live thing - and the desire to wait for Louis, to once again confront him with the reality of his nature.

I shifted irritably in the chair and then arose abruptly. Tonight he would hunt with me. We would go down to the docks which teemed with the vermin I had come to most enjoy. I would feast, and force Louis to do the same. Did he not realize that feeding on the scum of society, no matter what their pedigree, was doing the mortal world a favour? I paced, my mind racing through images of the past few evenings. We had attended several parties among the landed Creole gentry of late. How I adored moving among them. And while the filth of the night world was meat and drink to me, I did crave dessert every now and again. Perhaps later this week that craving would be satisfied as well. My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. A slow smile spread over my lips. Louis was home.

 

Post #3  
Louis

I dropped my cloak into the waiting arms of the silent houseboy and strolled into my drawing room. I knew Lestat would be there, thumbing through my ledgers, running his ambitious eyes over my monthly accounts, his mind whirling with inaccurate calculations for profits and losses which were not his to weather. How he would have liked to alter that! How many nights had he berated me, hectoring and cajoling and pleading with me to sign over the deeds of several of my properties to him. I had two plantations already, he repeatedly reminded me; what need had I of renting out property in New Orleans? If his expenditures were not so frequent and extravagant, as I had patiently observed on more than one occasion, then I perhaps I might have had less need of this extra income.

“You treat me like your personal banker,” I had justifiably complained.

This evening, as I entered my drawing room in my family home on the Pointe du Lac plantation, I found him just as I had anticipated. He was sitting behind my desk, running his long and slender index finger down a short column of entries, the tip of his white tongue poking out between his lips as he tried to apply his diabolically poor arithmetic to such simple figures. A faint scowl of concentration lined his pale brow. He paid absolutely no attention to the servant who answered my summons. I ordered wine and cold meat for both of us. We needed neither, of course, but this pretence of normalcy was a necessary precaution.

I sighed, and sank contentedly upon the chaise longue. “Put my ledgers away, Lestat,” I said, quietly but a faint trace of contempt in my voice. “Have you not peered at them enough for one evening? Or have you been spending like an emperor once again? What was it this time: another oil lamp made from Venetian glass; another silk rug imported from the Orient; another Dutch oil painting which you absolutely couldn’t live without?”

“Oh be quiet, Louis. You bore me.” He snapped the ledger closed all the same, his eyes glittering with anger. Then he smiled, dismissing all traces of irritation, and rose from behind my desk and walked across the room to occupy a chair beside mine. He looked around the room, a satisfied expression on his face. Lestat seemed especially fond of this room. Though there was a magnificent library available in the adjacent room, he barely seemed to set foot in it. Instead he spent much of his time here, surrounded by my family’s imported antique rosewood furniture.

“Where have you been, Louis?” He leaned back in the chair, and stretched his legs out before his, stretching his arms above his head in a posture of feigned relaxation.

“Out walking,” I replied. “It is a pleasant night.”

He laughed faintly, and chidingly replied, “I know exactly where you have been. I always know where you are.”

I did not believe this preposterous claim for one moment, but refused to be drawn into another pointless argument.

“Why won’t you let me meet her?” He was trying to win me with his most charming of smiles.

“You know why,” I replied. “We’ve been through this before. Can’t we have just one evening without this?”

Lestat sighed and smiled, lowering his arms as the servant returned with the refreshments I’d ordered. I was aware of the houseboy’s dark eyes studying us both. The slaves were wary of Lestat. They were becoming increasingly wary of me, also, even though many of the slaves had been kept by my family for as long as we’d been settled on the banks of the Mississippi. Their superstitious beliefs did not interest me in the slightest. Their private world was their own. It was almost the only thing they owned, and so their camp fire dances and African songs had become intensely precious to them.

White men left them alone after dark, which was something Lestat seemed unable to comprehend. By day, it was another story, of course, but the night was theirs.

Lestat waited until we were alone once more before speaking. “This woman Martine, she is a liability. She will know you are changed. She won’t understand it but she will know it. How can she not?” Lestat sighed heavily and softly closed his eyes as if a great burden weighed upon his mind. “Have you ever heard the ravings of the insane, Louis? Have you, my friend? For this will be your only lasting gift to her.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic. I will not give her up! She has been as a wife to me. She has been a part of my life for far longer than you have. And you want me to cast her aside? I will not, monsieur.”

Lestat sighed again then rose restlessly to his feet, pacing across the room. He paused by one of the tall windows and pulled back the heavy drapes to gaze out at the black night. He said nothing for some time, choosing instead to remain deep within his own thoughts. I threw most of the meat to the two dogs which lay on the rug before the cold hearth.

“I don’t want to argue with you, Lestat,” I said at last. Certainly, on recent nights too many sharp words had been passed between us. If he was to be my teacher in this strange new life then I knew I should at least try to appease him. This was no easy task, as I was fast learning. “But you can’t have everything your own way. Surely you can understand my position here?”

He gave no response at all. Suddenly, he was already across the room and at the door, his hand turning the polished brass handle. “Half the night is gone so soon,” he quietly said, turning to me, a strange smile hovering on his lips. “Don’t wait up,” he added.

 

Post #4  
Lestat

Several nights had passed. Louis was once again not with me; yet this particular evening found him meeting with his solicitor. Of course he had not chosen to enlighten me as to the matter. This was Louis' little method of control. He enjoyed keeping the status of our finances a secret. And his spending habits at times were hardly any more frugal than my own. He had only recently ordered several new pieces of furniture for his mistress.

There was certainly something seriously amiss with our financial situation, as only last evening several creditors had shown at the door demanding immediate payment. Well, as Louis had made it a point to keep those all a secret from me, he could sort it out. I was just as relieved to have him gone. I had plans that precluded his presence. I knew that by the time he left it would be too late for him to visit Martine. He was ever the courteous lover. I had given him every opportunity, every benefit of the doubt, and had been stonewalled. So in my own inimitable style, I had taken control of the situation. I have never been above chicanery or cheating; if I saw an unfair advantage, I took it. Simply put, I had hired an unsavoury character in desperate need of quick and easy money to track Louis one evening to the home of his beloved and to report both the address and the route. I most likely could have found it on my own as most of the women in her "profession" resided in one area, but I have always been one for the path of least resistance, given a choice. So I paid the bastard off and then made him my dinner. One less piece of scum to clutter up the bayou.

It did not take me long to find her home, and the candles and lanterns that illuminated the windows indicated that she was still awake, not that it would have made any difference, as I was not about to not be admitted. All it took was the mention of Louis' name and my claim to be a cousin, who had come on his behalf, for her to open the door. But then again, a woman of colour was not about to deny a Creole gentleman. 

One look at her face told me immediately why Louis had fallen so completely in love with her and was loathe to give her up. Her face was beautiful...pale mocha skin that was flawless, large almond shaped eyes that were fringed in lush sable brown, high cheekbones, and a mouth made to plunder. The light played upon heavy chestnut hair and the lustre of her skin illuminated her face. I entered the parlour, decorated in a manner that could only be described as soothing. Every stick of furniture, every ornament bespoke a quiet retreat, a setting designed to provide balm to a weary soul.

I felt my breath catch for a fragment of a second...and then I remembered my purpose. My earlier tone of concern soon gave way to something far colder as I seated myself without her offering me a chair. She seemed suddenly wary, as if the thought that she had possibly made a mistake had crossed her mind. She sank slowly into the chair across from me, her face registering her unease.

I took her measure..she was sweet..still little more than a child..and would be easy to manipulate. "Monsieur de Pointe du Lac has sent me on a somewhat delicate matter, cherie." I could almost taste the tension as it teased against her heart..."And I am almost ashamed that he was not honourable enough to come himself to break the news." Here her skin blanched several shades...I was beginning to enjoy myself. I feigned a sympathetic look. "Surely you knew this day would arrive, cherie...All young Creole gentlemen at some time must take a wife..." A gun could not have done a finer job of destroying her world. Now, many women had found themselves in her unenviable position... and most had accepted it with grace...But tears were not a scene I wished to endure. Not that I was moved by it...I simply found it histrionic. My God, was the girl really this green? I found myself becoming increasingly annoyed by the silent tears.

"Cherie, the deed is done. He has been married for the last several months. I cannot believe he has not told you..." Certainly it was a huge gamble on my part. Many men maintained their paramours even after marriage. But the change in their physical relationship - even Louis was not so foolish as to have kept bedding the wench - should have indicated that my words were true. I was counting on the deception being the undoing. I was wrong. From somewhere deep inside the minx found a backbone...and tears soon built and gave way to a slow, yet seething rage. She came at me like a thing possessed...a turn I was not expecting. Certainly it would have been all too easy to overpower her, and I was sorely tempted. I grabbed her by the arm and flung her against the wall of that quiet and gentle room.

"Now listen to me, you little bitch....you have three options...you can pack your bags and be out of here come morning...you can refuse to see him again...or I can go to him and tell him I bedded you." Her face went ashen as I slammed her against the wall again. "Speechless? Keep it that way, hmmm? I will give you another night to think it over...and get your answer tomorrow. In the meantime, you will send him a note that you are unable to meet him tomorrow night. I do not care what pretext you use...you are skilled at lying...make it good."

I left her slumped against the wall and exited into the night.

 

Post #5  
Louis

 

Holding Martine’s brief letter in my hand, I scowled faintly. Even though I was certain she entertained valid reasons for requesting me not to call upon her this evening, I found her refusal mildly annoying. There was no perfume on the simple page. This was, in itself, unusual. No doubt some complicated familial issue demanded her attentions. Martine was a free woman, and thus possessed high status amongst her large, extended family, not all of whom were free. Several of her sisters and cousins were deeply envious of Martine’s position with regards to me.

I thought no more of it. I folded her letter and placed it inside my personal diary. Momentarily I contemplated a visit to the slave quarters here at the Pointe du Lac indigo plantation. Should I take a stroll down to Janine’s little wooden house; or Marie’s; or Jeanette’s? My absence from their doors could not have gone unnoticed. Surely my favourites had missed my presence. Or perhaps not; I certainly would not ask.

Readers of this tale would do well to remember that they are a product of their time just as I was. I will not apologize for historical opinions which I no longer hold, neither will I re-write history to placate romantic illusions. My family kept approximately fifty-five slaves, Africans via St Domingo, who spoke various African languages and French patois. After dark they were a law unto themselves to an extent, moving cautiously between the Bel Jardin and Freniere plantations in order to attend gatherings when their drums would fill the night. They communicated through their drums. In this way, news could swiftly travel across the region. I had tried to advise Lestat to keep away from their quarters after dark but he turned a deaf ear to my repeated warnings. My visits to Janine or Annabelle had always been during daylight hours but this possibility was closed to me now, of course.

Where was Lestat this evening? I had no idea, as he had already departed before I had finishing attending to some business matters relating to the agency to which I leased my two plantations. Now I found myself at something of a loose end. Perhaps I might ride into New Orleans to call upon my sister and her husband who dwelt in one of my rather charming town houses. I owned several, in various locations, and had found the renting out of these to supply me with a profitable and steady income. The same holds true to this day, incidentally. My brother-in-law was not especially to my liking as I found his company rather dull, but he could be trusted to invest money on my behalf and had therefore proved his worth to me.

I rose from my chair before my rosewood writing bureau, and walked towards the empty hearth. When the houseboy answered my summons on the servant’s bell, I ordered my horse to be saddled at once. Then I left the drawing room and walked up the sweeping staircase, thinking as always of Paul as I did so, then entered my private rooms so that I might change into riding boots and don a suitable cloak. How I missed my brother, even now. This was something which Lestat seemed incapable of comprehending, as with so much.

What was I to do about Lestat? His behaviour was by turns enchanting and abominable. He was easily the most fascinating man I had ever encountered, yet also the most infuriating. He possessed boundless natural elegance and charm, yet such immense fury burned within his soul, if soul he had; for truly I now believed us both damned. This infernal gift which lived within us as a parasite granted such heightened awareness of all life and yet Lestat seemed to wilfully opt for obliviousness to so many rich experiences. Truly he was, in many ways, a most ignorant man despite his pretence to the aristocracy. And he was my teacher in this new life. He, who seemed to know so little.

My brown stallion was waiting for me when I stepped into the sultry night. The stable-boy lowered his glittering dark eyes shyly as I took the reins from his dusty hand. The pulse in his long neck throbbed enticingly. His smooth skin seemed so intriguingly dark against the off-white of his rough cotton shirt. His limbs were young yet; coltish, with just the tempting promise of future strength. Feeling my appreciative gaze, the boy raised his eyes. Such perfect, ivory teeth; such soft, heavy lips now parting in a subservient smile. His gaze did not deny me.

I turned away. Before Lestat had appeared in my life I had never known such impulses. I ignored my hunger and swung into the saddle, urging the quivering animal into the darkness which encircled my family home.

Without specific aim, I rode calmly through the humid night. The air was filled with the whir of winged insects and the calls of nesting birds, of steady drums drifting from the Bel Jardin plantation. Perhaps Martine was there, dancing around a fire. I could hear the slowly ringing bell of some haulage boat moving along the Mississippi nearby, and voices raised in tribal songs coming from my own slave quarters. I reigned in my horse and just sat for a while, motionless in the saddle, absorbing the peaceful night around me. This was as close to contentment as I ever now came.

 

Post #6  
Lestat

I was in a filthy mood that following evening. I did not even bother to hang around and wait for Louis. I was out the door and on my way to the docks while the sun was still an angry red blaze across the sky. This area was where I most often hunted for prey...and my thirst that night was raging. The small shanty town that had developed around the Mississippi was home to an assortment of claptrap dives, best described as "spit and sawdust" bars...brothels...and various hovels that were called home by the denizens of this little slice of hell. Rampant alcoholism, prostitution, murder and assorted vices I will not go into could be found here on any given evening. You took a risk venturing into this area at night, an even bigger risk if you wandered into the small labyrinth of alleys and side streets.

I took my first victim in a filthy alley near one of the more notorious brothels. Some piece of river trash, drunk as a lord, blathering nonsense to himself...a shell of a man. His clothing crawled over his skin as if he were alive with whatever vermin plagued him. His skin was sallow and reeked of cheap stale wine and his own filth. I caught him easily and slammed him back against the cold bricks of a crumbling wall. Tearing into his throat, I drank from him quickly...closed the wounds on his throat... and dropped him to the ground, hearing the crack of bone hitting the stone streets. No one would even try and find his killer - he was one more piece of mortal flotsam and jetsam spewed forth from the uncaring walls that surrounded us. It took the edge off my thirst.

Picking my way over the debris crowding the alley, I turned the corner and found my way to the door of the brothel. My knock was answered by a slattern of the lowest order, the self-proclaimed "Madame" of the establishment Badly hennaed hair warred with the garish purple of the cheap satin dress she wore. Her figure bulged the already threadbare fabric, splitting it in several places. She had made a feeble attempt to hide the badly stained armpits of the garment by wrapping a ragged piece of lace over her shoulders. She made no attempt, however, to cover the wide expanse of bosom that spilled over the neckline of her dress. Her skin was almost as mottled as the fabric. Like most women in this half of the profession, it was almost impossible to tell her age. Life in this dung heap was often turbulent, brief, and violent. Circumstances of living aged one far too quickly. Her face was pockmarked, a condition she had attempted to cover with white powder and rouge. Her heavily lined eyes were sharp..almost reptilian...the bright white veined in red...the result of too much drink the night before...and the night before that.. ever since she had first stepped onto her own Devil's Road.

She ran her tongue over her red lips and gave me an appraising look. I was one of her best customers but, needless to say, I did not indulge my desires in her establishment. She also knew the type I preferred. I was not interested in novices, and virgins were unheard of in this part of the city. I wanted older goods...hardened.. the type who brandished a wicked and cruel blade as a side job. As I only fed from the evil doer, why not get the best? I drew out the money...her tongue flicked like a viper over her lips again and her eyes widened like the greedy pig she was. One night I would savour her, drinking every sin from her black, greasy heart. She took the money and I told her what to deliver three nights later. As with so much of the other litter in this area, another death - particularly a whore - would not be noticed, much less investigated.

I contemplated staying, searching for my next victim from the men who were in attendance that evening...but changed my mind. My thirst, as terrible as it was, would have to wait. I had a call to make.

I headed to Martine's tiny home...a stark contrast to where I had been. I would have the bitch packed and ready to leave in the morning. As I approached the house, I noticed no lanterns or candles lit in her windows. I smiled. Perhaps she had already left. I stood at the door, knocked quickly... and the door opened of its own accord. The sitting room was completely dark, but not so dark that I could not make out what was in front of me. She was crumpled on the floor, her hair cascading across the rug, the skirts of her elaborate dress blending into the carpet. I did not even have to move to her to know she was dead.

My eyes scanned quickly. Blood pooled under her head. She had obviously been struck from behind. I was searching for some clue as to the weapon when a sound on the porch caught my attention. Whirling around, I caught only a flash of dark skin and white shirt. I moved without hesitation after it.

 

Post #7  
Louis

Often, I have found, the simplest things in life are also the most exquisite. Free of unnecessary artifice or clamouring vanity, those things which are overlooked as mundane or commonplace can often harbour captivating beauty. Too easily I find myself distracted by the slightest thing, which previous to this life I would not have given any thought. Time slips by uncounted as I gaze with complete absorption at the delicate nuances of shade in a pearl, or in the way raindrops fall so softly upon the undulating surface of a dark pond. The texture of material enthrals me; I can see every thread of warp and weft, every subtle variation in the dye, every tiny stitch. I can stand motionless for hours before a painting, in silent rapture of every fluid brush stroke, every shade of thick oil or fragile watercolour. Even after all these years, I am still this way.

I was in such a contemplative mood as this upon the night which I now recount. I had ridden over my estate on my favourite steed, a temperamental creature which Lestat thoroughly loathed. His whereabouts were unknown to me, as usual. He was very much his own man and often treated me as little more than a necessary burden, but he was far from my thoughts as I slowly rode through deserted dirt tracks edging the indigo fields. No particular destination guided my feet. I was ravaged with this cursed thirst but had done little to quench it. How long I might be able to sustain this level of starvation I did not yet know.

Beneath my favourite magnolia tree I dismounted, looping the reigns over a low branch. Magnolias are probably the flower I love the most, even now. Then, as I often do now, I plucked one tulip-like blossom from the bower and lifted it closer, joyfully inhaling the wonderful fragrance. I leant back against the gnarled and twisted trunk, aware of the thick moss by my feet, of the damp earth beneath the moss. Awareness of the tree’s solidity pressing against my relaxed shoulders, awareness of every tiny movement of night air and of each sound carried upon it, filled my calm mind. How vast this world must be, and how rich with untested experience! What would it mean to travel the world as I was now, with these extraordinary senses? I was not even sure if such feats were possible for me now. I frowned faintly, recognising that Lestat must have originated from somewhere, as must his own Maker have done. I knew so little, and Lestat taught me almost nothing. Those few fragments of information which I had gleaned from him had been wrestled from him against his will. I found his indifference to my plight absolutely infuriating.

The thirst clawed at my soul, but I ignored it as best as I was able. I was lying to myself. The thirst was all I could think of.

I sighed heavily and led my horse back towards the plantation house. How my father had laboured over its design and construction when he had first brought his family to the New World from France. A land grant had enabled him to bring us here to build another life. Already the house was being pulled slowly apart by the rampant growth of vines and moss. The proud family home he had hoped for was already being patiently dismantled by Mother Nature. Perhaps this early realisation of the temporary quality of material possessions has bestowed upon me my relative indifference to material comforts? But I digress from my tale.

When I returned to my family home, Lestat had still not deigned to appear. I brushed this slight irritation from my mind and instead settled down in a comfortable armchair to contemplate the dancing light of the candle nearest to me. Have you ever noticed that within the flare of light is a dark core? I watched the blue-ish grey coil of smoke twist upwards form the tip of the flame, and stopped breathing so that I might hear the susurrant sizzle of beeswax wax boiling around the pale wick. Then I roused myself, hearing rapid footsteps approaching my study door.

I smoothly rose and touched the candle to the wick of an oil lamp. The room glowed more brightly as frantic rapping on the closed door caused me to scowl. Displeased by this disturbance, I replaced the glass cover on the oil lamp and coldly called out, “Enter.”

The door instantly flew open, and the houseboy, his round eyes wide and rolling with fear, great silver tears smearing his ebony face, called out, “Master Louis, sir! Master Louis! I don’t know the right words, sir! But Master Louis, it’s Miz Martine! She been found dead! Oh, Lord, it’s terrible! Dead, sir! All murdered and dead!”

My knees gave way beneath me. Purely by chance did I fall backwards into another chair. The houseboy’s words washed over me without me really hearing them.

“Miz Martine been found murdered, sir! Her sister done call round to her house, and she was just all lying on the ground! And the killer was seen running on down the road away from the house, sir! He been seen! It was him, Master Louis! It was Master Lestat gone done it.”

 

Post #8  
Lestat

I heard the boy's semi-hysterical rants before my feet crossed through the parlour doors. Goddamn it all. As if it were not bad enough that the child had seen me, he was sure to babble the news to everyone he encountered. And if he had seen me, how many others? I had moved very quickly once I realized my exit had been noticed. Hopefully he was the sole witness. Not that it really mattered. The sad truth of the matter was that the death of an octoroon courtesan would barely be noticed by white society, let alone investigated. And the word of wealthy gentleman against a slave boy would be no contest. No...my concern was that word would spread among the slaves. There was already suspicion and gossip about Louis and I - and our relationship as well. Even I knew when a line was in danger of being crossed.

There was no mistaking how distraught Louis was. I could tell he was trying not to give way to the violence of his grief and anger in an attempt to calm the child down. I could hear the child's stuttered mumblings laced through with tears.

"I had me a full view of de house, sir. After he done left it. And Miz Martine's sister, sir - she came after he was already gone”.

Louis was making a pathetic attempt to mesmerize the boy's mind. I knew he would fail miserably. I also knew this idiot child's inane blabbering would drive a wedge between Louis and I that would be almost impossible to heal. Our relationship was already strained - this could seal it.

Rage propelled me through the double doors and I no longer cared if I woke up the entire world. Three strides had me across the room, the boy pressed against the wall, my hand a tight cuff at his throat. My fingers slid under the frayed collar of his shirt, pressing against his windpipe. I could feel his frail body dance against mine until he folded like a rag doll. Letting him slip gently to the floor, I turned to face Louis. His face was terrible to behold, a landscape of volatile emotions. His voice started with the soft hiss of white rage. "You unspeakable bastard. It is not bad enough you have killed the last vestige of humanity, my one remaining tether to the mortal world, the one last source of love and life in this hell of an existence, but you have to compound the sin with the death of a child?"

I stared at him coldly, my reptilian gaze flicking over him with contempt. "You are beyond naive, Louis. You are an idiot and an ass. How long do you think it would be before that piece of river trash blurted out the news of what he thinks he saw to every slave here? And within two days, every plantation would know."

Louis' next words were barely audible. "He said no one else saw you. He was watching the house. The only other person who went into the house was Martine's sister, and that was well after you left." Here his voice trailed off completely. A mask slipped over his features and before I knew what was happening, he was upon me. Rage had rendered him strong. It took a concentrated effort for me to push him off. I grabbed him by the front of his shirt and flung him back against the heavy mahogany desk at the end of the room. I was upon him immediately, my hands pinning him down to the desk, my full weight pressed upon him. My voice fell against his ear.

"Listen to me, you weak minded idiot. I did not kill your precious little strumpet. Yes, I hated her and am glad she is dead and out of our lives..." At this his face blanched. I could not stop myself...I wanted my words to hurt. "Do you think me stupid enough to have done the deed myself? Would I risk destroying what we have left by betraying you thus?"

I felt him go slack under my hands and I loosened my grip on his arms. He snatched my wrists in his grasp and flung me back against the bookcase. Standing over me, his face grew impassive. "I want you gone from here tomorrow night, Lestat." Blood tears welled in his eyes and his mouth worked in an attempt to say something else. It was futile..the words would not be coerced ...or even forced. He turned and fled the room.


End file.
